


half a decade under the influence

by orphan_account



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8500330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ashton looks up and sees Neptune in Luke’s eyes, ablaze as he examines a scar on Ashton's abdomen, as he plays some dazzling, silent melody across Ashton's ribs, rocking himself against Ashton's muscular thigh. There's the collective blush, the white hands and tan arms and red face, all marked by cold, callused, long fingers ghosting past Luke's cheekbones to the back of his neck. Fingertips swirl in damp blond curls and Luke arches down, hard as fibreglass but more fluid, more effortless and helpless as Ashton hesitates, then moves to meet him.





	

“Luke,” he says, standing distant as though they’re strangers. They’re not and Luke can’t remember back to a time when they ever have been. Ashton is everybody’s stranger but Luke’s now, and there is a fleeting chill up Luke’s spine for the duration of the heavy pause after Ashton says his name. “This is the last time.”

Luke doesn’t quite know why, but he thinks of smoky, creaking old piano recordings he’d heard long ago while visiting his grandparents, the kind with coughs but maintains a timeless, excessive sort of beauty he’s too ignorant to truly understand. It’s weird, really, because he can still hear the thrum of heavy bass from the club echoing in his ear, the tasteless techno crap with no soul or purpose, spitting on everything Luke’s trying to accomplish with his own music. He loves it, though. Loves the beat and the pounding in his ears as he dances with strangers and his blood turns to alcohol.

“Did you hear me, Luke?” Ashton says, tugging off his leather jacket, letting it drop to the hotel floor. “This is the last time. I mean it this time.”

In the clutching sunset and lack of artificial light, Ashton is now his pretty mirror-image but for the trembled force in his hands. Ashton’s hands spread Luke’s flat against the bed, and Luke moans delightfully when, looking like a star, Ashton is tantalisingly slow over smooth white buttons, horribly clever over hardening nipples and piano-key ribs and ivory-smooth hips.

He stops him, though, just like the first time; he wants to keep his shirt on. Ashton, somewhat lost in the dull light, is about to mention the fact that Luke has been walking around with his chest on display, exposing the dip of his sternum, but he silences himself. He’s never made Luke feel uncomfortable and he’s not about to start. He re-buttons Luke’s shirt back to its original state, sits back, takes off his own t-shirt without any qualms.

The colour of Ashton’s skin, warm-tanned-gold from the summer sunshine, makes Luke look and feel half-dead but he ignores this and just lets himself go because this is the last time.

Ashton is so attentive, so hot when he’s moving down the length of Luke, peeling of his jeans, muttering something about poor circulation. Luke thinks he might be right, feeling lightheaded and weightless. When his legs are free, he pulls them up, brackets Ashton between them. He wants to keep him there, keep him this close forever, but he can’t because he loves him better than that.

“Ash,” Luke pants, sitting up slightly, shoving his hands clumsily down the back of Ashton’s jeans, trying to get them off. When this fails, he gropes Ashton’s backside, pushes him down onto him, pressing them together. “ _Please_.”

Ashton, for his part, nods, beer-singed mutterings unintelligible as he backs away, pulls down his jeans and boxers. Luke reaches for him straight away, using his frame—when did that happen? Ashton thinks, flat on his back—to switch their positions from before. This is the last time, not the first time; Luke’s not some lanky, world-wary sixteen-year-old blond boy with crippling self-esteem issues that lets Ashton dictate everything they do. No, somewhere between the first and last time, Luke grew up, became a man as he writhed and cried and pleaded for Ashton, for more, for _fuckyesjusthtereiloveyousomuch_.

Ashton looks up and sees Neptune in Luke’s eyes, ablaze as he examines a scar on Ashton's abdomen, as he plays some dazzling, silent melody across Ashton's ribs, rocking himself against Ashton's muscular thigh. There's the collective blush, the white hands and tan arms and red face, all marked by cold, callused, long fingers ghosting past Luke's cheekbones to the back of his neck. Fingertips swirl in damp blond curls and Luke arches down, hard as fibreglass but more fluid, more effortless and helpless as Ashton hesitates, then moves to meet him. Their mouths are hot and no-one is in charge because tonight is not the time for that, and the corners of Ashton's lips jump as Luke's sweaty, pathetically small hand slips against his cock. It's quick, as though unintentional, but the whine echoing in Luke's mouth and the patterns Ashton's hands draw over Luke's clothed shoulder blade and right cheekbone show it isn't unappreciated, not in the slightest.

“Going to fuck myself on your cock now,” Luke says, breath hot on Ashton’s throat. It’s strangely detached, and Luke’s heart jumps at his own words, like he subconsciously knows that, for Ashton, this is already over.

Only the hands on his waist remind him that he is not alone.

It’s right like this now, with his hand braced on the headboard and his joints creaking wonderfully over Ashton’s gorgeous form and Ashton’s broad golden hands fluttering prodigy-quick, so that it’s some kind of punishment for what Ashton doesn’t know he’s done.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he does know Luke is absolutely and unequivocally in love with him.

It hurts like this, mostly because Ashton is far too good at this, because Ashton knows just how to flick his tongue and his teeth against Luke’s neck as he fucks him and Luke fucks himself and Ashton’s hands are settling underneath Luke’s shirt. All of it together is too much, now, because nobody can make Luke feel like this, because Ashton can, and because pink sickly sweet-tasting lips and now-mussed curly hair are what he wants so badly as flashing blue lights accompanied by sirens illuminate the hotel room for a moment.

This is so fucking good, Luke thinks, writhing, which is what Ashton groans into his collarbone with the scrape of teeth hinting vaguely at his real intention as he fucks Luke just a little bit harder and hisses his name and Luke’s past even trying not to scream.

Ashton is too good; each thrust of his hips, each upwards motion pressing Luke’s cock between the fine-tuned muscle of Ashton’s stomach and the soft, fleshiness of his own, exposed by Ashton’s hands, elicits a new, nearly inhuman sort of noise from the quivering thing with the turquoise pennant around its neck. Ashton slips a hand under the chain, tugging Luke’s head closer, and dives his tongue into his mouth, hips bucking and he knows it’s not long because Luke is too stunned, too pleased, too pained to do anything but feebly kiss him back and come on Ashton’s hand and abs, groaning delightedly,  _fuck, Ashton, that was good_ despite himself; and soon Ashton comes too, breathing too heavy to speak, making Luke shudder.

They’re still for a while, Luke sticky and hot on top of Ashton, his forehead against his shoulder, before he gingerly climbs off him. Luke stands and cringes, fingers quickly fluttering down to the back of his thighs; Ashton looks down, guilty. “Sorry, I should’ve—”

“It’s fine, Ash, really,” Luke says with a tiny smile, moving awkwardly to the bathroom. He won’t miss that part, he thinks as he unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off. He is translucent and slightly stunned under the bright lights of the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror above the sink, and suddenly a wave of nausea propels him towards the toilet.

He cries as he retches, fingers limp around the porcelain rim, and it is only made worse by Ashton’s hands rubbing slow circles into his back and his comforting voice and joking little _wow, was I really that bad, Luke?_ because he’s more than acutely aware of how humiliating this is through his drunken haze.

“You’re alright,” Ashton mutters, cheek against Luke’s damp, shivering back. His arms drape around Luke, linking together, encasing him. “Let it out. I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

Luke can’t really think straight, keeps mumbling about wanting his mum through wet sobs. He wants his mum and he wants to go home and he wants to go back to normality because he’s suddenly struck by the realisation that everything is so fucking hard. Tiring and hard. He moans, head falling and smacking against the cool toilet bowl, because now is not the time for that.

Ashton moves him back after a moment, pulling him up to the sink so he can rinse his mouth out. “Feel better?” he asks, hands on Luke’s shoulders, keeping him steady. He’s good at that; keeping Luke upright, facing forward, moving along. God knows what he’d do without him.

Luke lifts his head, wipes his nose with the back of his arm. “Yeah,” he mumbles with a nod. “Better.”

And this—this is when Ashton looks at him, swallowing hard, hands cradling his face. In another life, he would lean in, kiss Luke on the corner of his mouth and tell him he loves him—but he doesn’t. He doesn’t love him. It’s something as trite, cheap and terribly, terribly devastating, but it isn’t love. It’s the remnants of love. The charred remains. Ashton’s not in love with Luke, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t.

If only they could’ve loved each other at the same time, he thinks sadly as he makes sure Luke gets to bed before lying down beside him.

“I didn’t mean it, Lukey,” Ashton whispers into the ridges of Luke's spine. He never does.

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to Hawthorne Heights while writing this lmao excuse the emo undertones.  
> [tumblr](http://lindoluke.tumblr.com/)


End file.
